Only the Constant
by Brunette
Summary: Gretchen begrudgingly helps a very inebriated Jonathan one night.


_Author's Note: So, obviously, I could instead write the next chapter of _Tramps and Thieves_, but I'm in a one-shot mood, so I decided to write a companion piece to it. I've already decided to write a sequel (or two ... maybe one during the time between the movies, and then one during TMR), but I thought, hey, why not a one shot with Gretchen and the Mummy Co.? _

_So, obviously, this is about the central character of my other fic,_ Tramps and Thieves_, but you don't have to read that to understand this. However, I would never discourage anyone from reading_ Tramps and Thieves_ (and coughreviewingcough), so ... go ahead, read it!_

_Disclaimer: I do not own the characters or storyline of The Mummy. Gretchen, however, is my own invention, and as long as you credit me, you can use her all you want. Everyone else in Cairo has ;)._

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**Only the Constant**

A heavy, fumbling hand took hold of her shoulder, and for a second, Gretchen was sure she was under arrest. Her mind sped through a thousand misconducts, her stomach dropping to some hidden place and leaving its previous residence hollow and cold. She took a breath, gulped back the last swig of whiskey in her glass, and turned her most innocent, convincing smile to her assumed captor.

" 'Ello, love!"

Gretchen's smile dropped for only a moment before a grin of relief overtook her features. She should have known. Wrapping her arm around his waist, she couldn't help noticing that her anchored position on the barstool was keeping her inebriated acquaintance from toppling to the dingy, slippery floor. Her brow furrowed at the pool of smelling liquod at his feet for a brief moment before catching a glimpse of the empty glass in his hand. He reeled, trying to tip back a heavy swig from the glass. His face contorted in something like rage and confusion, but he forgot it a moment later and slammed the glass on the bar. He blinked hard a few times, his overexaggerated expressions taking full advantage of his usually handsome face.

"Well where did it all ... Oh!"

His arm snaked out with suddenly clear depth perception and stealth, and his fingers wrapped around her full glass of whiskey and water with a quickness she hadn't exactly expected from his present ... condition. Gretchen's eyes widened.

"Jonathan!"

But he had already taken a long, satisfying gulp of_ her_ drink, paid for with _her_ money, that she had to work much harder for than Jonathan could ever aspire to doing ... whatever the hell it was he did to keep cash in his pocket. His brow furrowed as he polished off the last of her whiskey, tilting his head at his personal enigma.

"And I could've sworn I ordered gin --"

Gretchen stretched a slightly irritated smile across her features, rubbing his back with ever-so-slightly vicious nails.

"Jonathan," she tried again sweetly, "are you doing anything special tonight?"

He tripped over some mysterious object on the floor, catching himself on the bar just a moment before dropping unceremoniously to the floor. Gretchen gripped his elbow with her other hand, struggling to remain patient.

"Oh, I'm just having a night on the town!" he exclaimed a little too loudly in her ear, his reeking breath filling the air between them. "Just fl-forgetting about the day!"

Gretchen nodded, pulling herself off the barstool and slinging an arm beneath his shoulders. "I don't think you'll be remembering this tomorrow, Jon."

His face beamed with his careless grin as she forced him to fumble steps to match her own. She maneuvered the two of them out of the bar, pushing passed the unsightlies and ruffians with gruff "pardon"'s and "excuse me"'s. Gretchen wasn't altogether unsure that Jonathan hadn't been picked by a few of them, but how would he know the difference? In the morning, he'd find himself throbbing with a headache and assume he was broke from drinking. They made it to the door just as Jonathan's grin soured sickly green; Gretchen caught him by the shoulders just as he leaned out the doorway and wretched. The foul stench of rotting alcohol drifted from his mouth but his easy smile persisted. He wiped a linen sleeve over his stinking lips, and Gretchen rolled her eyes, lurching him in the direction of her tenement.

"Oh, dear, it's been a bloody day!" he shouted, his voice echoing against the cool night and dirty buildings. Gretchen took a breath, reminding him gently:

"Jonathan, people are trying to sleep."

He jerked his head up and down in big nods, a slow groan rumbling from his throat. "I could use a sleep myself --"

And suddenly his lean bulk was slipping from her grasp, and he was collapsing to the gutter. Gretchen let go of him, unwilling to be pulled into the mound of trash in the alleyway. She licked her lips, glancing up a block at her waiting tenement. From where she stood, she could see her window -- picture her bed unmade and unwashed, but welcoming all the same. If she left him here, she could be asleep in ten minutes. Gretchen let out an indecisive sigh, glancing at his pathetic form slouched in the muck, ready to pass into a black, unconscious slumber.

A part of her told her she couldn't just leave him there; he'd be robbed naked by morning. But the other part -- the part that had kept her alive and in a crappy apartment rather than dead on the streets -- told her it was his own fault, and she'd be an idiot to involve herself in Jonathan's mistakes without definite payment. Gretchen bit her lip, reminding herself that he was a faithful client, and that it wouldn't hurt to have his trust to fall back on. She huffed a curse under her breath, gripping his limp arm in her two hands and dragging him to a stand.

"Go to hell," he whined darkly, stumbling into her balanced form. She wrapped an arm firmly about his body, jerking him to a walk.

"I'm taking you to bed."

He turned his head to stare at her with glazed blue eyes. "Bed?"

"You're gonna sleep at my place for the night."

At least Ghazi would think she had a john and not bug her about working.

Jonathan smiled and tried to shrug. "My mum told me not to trust women like you."

"She must not have told you to go getting shit-faced in slums," Gretchen muttered under her breath. For not being a very big or broad fellow, his weight laid hard on her joints and muscles. He only laughed, dipping and swaying with her attempts to drag him that one damned block to her apartment. He was making some incoherent, terribly off-key noise that might have been a hum, bursting out suddenly in a drinking tune he probably thought was extraordinarily clever.

_" ... 'Were she no longer true. Eileen Aaron! Wou-what her lover do?'_ C'mon, love, sing with me now!"

Gretchen wondered remotely how she was supposed to sing to a song that he couldn't carry a note for. But she gritted her teeth and decided maybe he'd be a little more cooperative if she played along.

_"'Eileen Aaron!'"_

_"'Fly with a broke_ ... nnn ... something?" he took a deep breath, unabashed by losing the words in his head and bellowing, _"'Eileen Aaron!"_

She swallowed difficultly, staring up at the tenement windows with pleading eyes, begging that none of them peek out and give them a few choice curses. "Maybe we shouldn't sing right now --"

_"'What makes his dawning glow? Changeless through joy and woe' _... Is there another Eileen Aaron after that?"

Since when did he care about the way the song actually went?

_"'Only the constant know',"_ Gretchen provided quietly, heaving a sigh of relief as they tripped up the steps of her tenement buidling. She jammed the door open with her foot, pushing Jonathan on in ahead of her. He blinked heavily in the dimly lit lobby, turning about to face her.

"Well now I know where I am!"

She highly doubted that.

"C'mon, Jon. Let's go upstairs."

Gretchen was grateful she lived only one flight of stairs up. She figured, if she had had to drag Jonathan up four -- or two, even, she would have probably left him to pass out so that she could sleep in her own bed in peace. Her knuckles were white about the railing as she jerked and pulled her lovable drunk up each step, prepared to let go of him should he reel too much and go careening. She wasn't a cruel person, but she wasn't going to risk her neck and back just because an English ne'er-do-well didn't know when to stop with his liquor. He was startlingly quiet as they trudged up the stairs, and Gretchen's stomach twisted anxiously with each fulfilled step. She feared he'd pass out just as they were reaching the top, and his sudden silence was hardly reassuring.

She crossed herself with her free hand when they made it to the landing, making a mental note to take the room at this end of the hall, now that Meredith was dead. Her stomach turned again, and she resolved not to think about that and just get Jonathan to her room. Her breath was heavy and ragged as she leaned him against the wall and dug for her key, unlocking the cramped tenement and flinging open the rotting wooden door. Her fingers reached automatically for the kerosene lamp on the crate by her door, filling the humble space with a pallid, yellow glow. Jonathan leaned into her heavily, and she gritted her teeth, resolving to get him to the bed before finally releasing him.

He flopped onto the worn, creaking mattress, snoring before his head touched the sheets. Gretchen sighed, looking over his grimy, dirty clothing and deciding that she didn't want any of that stinking residue staining her sheets. With not-so-gentle fingers, she unbuttoned his once-snappy attire, yanking the articles of clothing from his body and throwing them to the floor until he was down to his skivvies. She wouldn't have moved him after that, except that she had to sleep there, too, so she twisted and pulled him into a normal sleeping position on the bed.

Gretchen glanced over him a final time before settling to the floor and rifling through his pockets. His wallet hid out in a jacket pocket, and she slipped the thin leather thong from the smelling linen easily. She counted barely twenty pounds, and glanced up at him again. His mouth gaped when he slept, and drool was already dripping from his open lips. His eyelids fluttered, and sometimes he spoke of strange, incoherent things. Gretchen had shared a bed with Jonathan Carnahan many times before. She breathed a sigh, putting the wallet back. She'd tell him he owed her for the night in the morning -- which certainly wasn't a complete lie.

Slipping out of her clothes, she walked the few, pathetic steps across the room and turned out the light. In the brothel, the nocturnal hours still lived: she heard the skittering of cockroaches across her floor, and the constant, rhythmic banging of a bedpost against her wall. She sighed, slipping beneath the covers beside Jonathan. No matter what else was happening, some things could always be counted on. As long as she lived here, there would always be one of the other prostitutes working late into the night -- as long as this was a crumbling building, she would share her living space with large, unsightly bugs. As long as there was liquor, Jonathan would drink himself helpless. Some things -- even some people, were constant.

And she had to wonder if she was a constant. If, for Jonathan, he could always depend on her somehow getting him to a safe place to sleep, and that's why he saught her out in the casbah. Gretchen snorted. What a fine, debilitated idiot to get attatched to. Here she was, thriving in squalor, and Jonathan in his linen suit and childish grin depended on her. Resting her head on the pillow, she closed her eyes. At least she'd know -- Jonathan would always be there, needing something. And even if it was a bum deal, it was something to depend on in the messy chaos that constituted the rest of life.

He rolled over in his sleep, slinging an arm over her body, and Gretchen sighed. When times were hard on him, he'd be here -- she knew. It was probably the only promise Jonathan ever intentionally kept.

_end_


End file.
